


You Always Have A Choice, Jon Snow

by Airplanes



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Jon Snow, BAMF Reader, BAMF Women, Because season 8 was shit, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, I'm rewriting the show, Jon Snow Knows Nothing, Long, Reader-Insert, Slight Canon Divergence, Slow Burn, Smut, Spoilers, girls are awesome, you deserve better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2019-10-01 12:57:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17244632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Airplanes/pseuds/Airplanes
Summary: Responsibility seemed to hang over his head like a threat, whether he sought it out or not.In which you fall for the bastard, and he falls for you, and all of the Seven and the Old Gods and Lords of Light can't manage to keep you apart.





	1. You don't love me

Ever since you were a little girl, you’d had a crush on the bastard.

It’s not as though you saw him that frequently, either - only about once every six months for a short time, when your family visited Winterfell. And it was more oft than not a gaze from afar in the dining hall, or a wistful glance across the castle ward. It was frowned upon for a Lady to speak to a bastard, and you knew it full well.

Knowledge didn’t stop your young heart. He was two years older than you, a good kid - a bit emotional, but you’d prefer the term _passionate_ \- he tried his best to be courteous and respectful to Catelyn, who let her disdain for him be known, he listened well to Maester Luwin in his lessons, paid attention to Ser Cassel in training, and he never once was rude to the other Stark children - in fact, he seemed quite taken with Arya, the tomboy, and Robb, who was close in age with him. Not only was he well-behaved, but he was also easy on the eyes.

Once, when he was around fourteen, you got the rare opportunity to speak with him. You’d asked, “Why do you put up with it all, Snow?”

He peered at you, expression a mix of mistrust and confusion, “With what?”

“How they treat you!” You frowned, “The Lady of Winterfell doesn’t like you, and neither does her ginger-haired daughter, it seems. You’re almost a man now, you could leave if you wanted. Why do you stay?”

“I’m a bastard,” He splayed his hands palm up in surrender, “What am I to do?”

You twisted your lips in thought, “You’re smart. You could become a maester. You’re talented with a sword - you could join the Kingsguard, get knighted - hell, if you’re really not sure, you could take the black. Anything.”

He held your eyes for a moment, gazing between them as he thought. You tried not to let your restlessness show. You were almost giddy to be speaking to him, yes, but you were also genuinely confused. When it became clear that he didn’t really know how to respond, you stepped closer.

“You don’t have to stay here.”

“All those things… I don’t know.” He shook his head slightly, breathing a laugh. “I’ve never really had a place - I mean, I know I’m treated well by the Starks but - it’s always just felt like me and the Starks. I’m not one of them.” He admitted, kicking at nothing on the ground. Then, as if realizing something, his eyes snapped back to yours. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. It’s not like you understand, exactly.”

“Well, no, but-”

“Listen, I’ve got to get back to the stables.” He said, taking a step back. “My Lady,” He gave a tight smile and turned away.

It was then that you decided you wanted to marry him.

The last time you visited Winterfell before Robert died and it all went to shit, you mustered the courage to put your plan into action. Since the first time you’d spoken four years ago, you’d managed to at the very least become his good friend. There were times where you’d thought that maybe something more had come of it, but just as you’d be ready to take the leap, he’d reel you back. It was frustrating, to say the least - to the both of you.

 

“You seem to be in a sour mood.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, roughly in the same spot that you two spoke for the first time. For a moment, the question of why he wanted to meet you here crossed your mind, but any hopes of him wanting to take things further were dashed by his stubbornness. The hallway was dimly lit, candles and a dusky sun being the only sources of light. You gazed, almost longingly at the thick black curls and a light stubble complimenting dark brows and brown eyes. The shadows under his eyes made him look exhausted. You wanted to hold him.

Raising a brow at him, you squinted slightly in annoyance. He was less than a foot away, just closer than friendly. His voice was just a low murmur, “What?” His expression told you that he knew exactly what was wrong, which made you even more annoyed. He sighed and bit his lower lip, looking slightly past you, out of a window. “Go on.” He said softly.

“You’re too smart for me to have to tell you, _Jon Snow_.” Your tone was biting, and he closed his eyes in response, brows drawing inward.

“You know why.” He said, “I-” You stepped forward, reached up and placed a hand on his cheek and his eyes met yours again. He sat his hand over top of yours, “It can never be.” He was serious, enough to make you frown. After a moment, he pulled your hand away, shaking his head slightly. His hand gently held yours, and your toes were close enough to touch.

“It can. What are you so afraid of, Jon?” You were emboldened by your misery and hurt feelings, so your voice came out strong.

“Hurting you,” he said, almost as if it was obvious. You snaked your fingers through his hair - _damn,_ you’d wanted to do that for the longest - and he let out a sigh, “Make this easy for me. _Please_ ,” He really did sound exhausted, but any sway his plea might’ve had with you was washed away by his eyes drifting to your lips as his own parted.

“Make it easy for you?” Your fingers in his hair tightened, and he made a soft noise, licking his lips in response, “When have I ever?” With every inch you drifted closer, he seemed to become more and more nervous.

“You-” Whatever he might’ve been about to say in response was cut off by your mouth pressing to his. He squeezed your hand, weaving his fingers between yours as your lips danced together. His reply was soft, unsure, but eager, so you deepened the kiss, tongue skimming over his lower lip and tugging on his hair in the process. He let out an almost surprised groan and gasped, pulling away for a moment. He was clearly already worked up - his breathing was uneven and even in the dim light you could tell he was flushed. You pressed the full length of your body against his, and he placed his free hand on your hip.

“We shouldn’t- _ah_ ,” He yelped as you stood on your toes and nipped at his ear, kissing along his jaw. His fingers dug into your hip with every touch, and you pressed your lips to his again, almost chastely. He followed as you pulled away.

“Shouldn’t what?” You whispered, starting to place open-mouthed kisses down the side of his neck. A cool breeze came from the outside as the last of the sun’s rays disappeared beyond the edge of the world. Jon swallowed harshly and shivered, and you breathed a laugh into the hollow of his throat. You wondered if he knew you could feel his erratic pulse beneath your lips.

“... shouldn’t do this here.” He finished quietly. You noticed he was alternating between harsh pants and holding his breath, and that the hand holding yours was trembling. “Anyone can see - and I need to-” You pulled his head back to get better access to his neck and he moaned when you licked the length of it, “Just wait a minute!” He said, leaning back slightly. Your body followed his, but you discontinued your relentless attack on his neck. The beginnings of his erection pressed against your inner thigh, giving you an odd sense of pride.

When you gazed into his eyes again, he looked positively erotic. His eyes were wide, face red, and lips swollen from the kiss. His hair was now a mess, and you unlocked your fingers from his curls, letting your hand rest on the nape of his neck instead. He took the opportunity to catch his breath.

There was a long stretch of silence before you decided to break it, pulling your hand from his and slinging it also around his neck. “A minute is almost gone, Jon.”

He gave you the absent look of a startled deer. “Huh?”

“You said, “Just wait a minute!”, and a minute is nearly past.”

He nodded, seemingly snapping out of his thoughts, “We should stop now,” He said. He didn’t look like he wanted to stop, if the way his eyes drifted downward were any indication. “This - it’s not a private place and I have to-” The words died in his throat and his face paled.

You trailed your hand down his chest as he spoke and his eyes followed the movement. “Now?”

“Now would be best, yes.” He murmured. Your hand reached his belt, and then drifted a touch lower. Lightly, your fingers pressed against the front of his trousers, and before you could get much further, his hand grabbed your wrist. When you looked back up at him, pouting, he gave you a pleading look. “It’s not for me - it’s - you would be - If anyone saw-” He had too many things to say at once, and just finished with a sigh, hoping his expression said it all.

“Okay.” You said. If someone did happen to stumble upon you two, it _would_ be bad. “Then-” You pulled his hand and he followed you forward, walking a few yards to a door. You opened it, pushed him in first, and closed it behind you.

It was a spare room, just a single candle on the nightstand, so you led him to stand at the side of the bed before letting go of his hand to light a few candles. Jon was surprisingly silent the whole time, and when you turned back to face him, he had the same, doe-eyed look on his face as when you first kissed him.

You wrapped your arms around his neck again and smiled. “Better?”

It was curious - it was almost as if he wasn’t expecting to be led to privacy - like he thought that you would just stop in the hall. “I... Better.” He cleared his throat, and you giggled, “But… we should talk-”

“No more talking.” You pressed your lips to his again, pushing him back onto the bed and climbing on top of him. This time he opted to deepen the kiss, tongue soft, nervous against your own, like he was trying to tell you something. You sat on him, grinding down, and his hands gripped your hips quickly as he pulled away, forcing them to halt. You sat up, “What?”

“We _can’t_ \- not that.” His voice wavered slightly, and you rocked your hips back and forth experimentally. He bit off a groan and said your name in a warning. “I _can’t_.”

“Why not, Jon? Who would know?”

“Just-” His voice broke off into a whine as you circled your hips slowly over his, feeling his cock pressing against you in a delicious, biting way. You let out a soft moan of your own. “ _Please_ ,” It almost sounded like he didn’t know what he was asking for anymore.

“Well, we don’t _have_ to…” You didn’t stop the slow rhythm you’d built up, rolling your lower lip between your teeth as you smiled, “There are other ways to going about getting what we want, you know.”

He looked at you then - a long, tortured, _Jon Snow_ look. You fingered the ties on his pants, pulling them loose, slowly. “I have to tell you something.” He said, almost as though he didn’t want you to hear. You pulled at another tie and gazed down at him, inquisitive.

“You have to tell me something?” When he nodded once, you palmed his erection roughly and his hips pressed into your hand. “Now?”

You managed to pull down his pants to just past his hips, “Yes, _now_.” His fingers were still digging into your hips as you pulled his cock free, and then his next words were hurried, “I should’ve told you before but I-” He bit his lower lip, hard, when your thumb pressed the tip of his member.

“Told me what?” You wrapped your fingers around him firmly, and started on a slow, _tight_ pace, while your thumb circled the underside of his cock.

He felt the words that had brought him into your company that night leave him with each stroke of your hand. He looked to you like he wanted to protest - for propriety’s sake, at least - but every word he might’ve said was swallowed and replaced by moans, and with each one that left him he felt a deeper and deeper shame.

“Tell me, Jon.” You whispered into his neck, and it was all he could do to reply your name like a prayer. “What is it you have to say?” His fingers moved from your hips to dig into the sheets beneath him.

“Not like this,” He managed finally, voice all rasp, “For a moment, please, before…”

You pulled back to look at him, quickening your pace. “Tell me.”

His brows were drawn together in a very real, immediate sense of concern, “Wha-”

“Tell me.” You could tell he was close, so you wrapped your other hand around him as well, to which his eyes briefly rolled into his head. He looked between your hands and your serious expression, and he tried to will away his impending completion as he worked up the nerve to tell you.

“Gods have _mercy_ ,” he said. You waited, the only noise being his pants and whimpers, before he finally said, in a very small voice, “I’m taking the black.”

You froze, fire in you turning rapidly to ice, and you pulled your hands away from him as if he were a fire. He knew better than to make a sound at the loss of contact, but it didn’t stop the awful yearning his body felt for your hands to bring him to completion.

“You what?” At the hollow sound of your voice, he sat up and placed his hands on your shoulders, an apology written on his face. “What did you say?” You looked between his big, brown eyes, hoping you had misheard, but panic mounted when you realized you hadn’t. “What?”

He took you into his arms then, body warm against your own, but all you felt was a cold numbness. “I’m sorry,” he said, trapping your hands between your bodies, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,”

Your first instinct was to dig your fingers into his shirt, clinging to him for dear life as he murmured apologies into your ear, but it was only a moment before hot, searing anger possessed you and you yanked yourself away from him. His expression was purely contrite, but you wanted him to hurt. You were hurting.

Before you knew what was happening, you slapped him clear across the face, the sound carrying through the room. He was hardly phased by it, instead just taking your hands in his, “I know, I know, I’m _sorry_ ,”

“You’re _sorry_?” Your voice was nothing short of a hiss, one that made him stop short. He waited for you to continue, seemingly preparing himself for what would come next. “I was ready to give up everything for you, Jon Snow,” You said his name like a curse, “I was ready to _ruin_ myself for you.”

“I love you.” He said, suddenly. You pulled your hands from his and struck his chest, fighting back tears and refusing to let them fall. He wrapped his arms around you again, tighter this time.

“ _Fuck_ you!” You shouted. You were shaking, and you didn’t know if it was from anger or from the revelation that you’d wanted to hear for years. “If you loved me…” You staggered in a shaky breath, “you wouldn’t do this.”

“I have to.” His voice was tortured, “Please, I just want-”

“Why?” Despite your best efforts, a sob escaped you and tears started to fall rapidfire. “If you love me, _why_ then - why tell me and do this? We can - can run away together, I can take gold from my family’s keep, we can go to-” He shushed you, placing a hand on your head and rocking you gently.

“I’m doing this _because_ I love you. I can’t let you throw your life away for a bastard, and I can’t stay here.” His voice took the exhausted tone it had had before, and it occurred to you that this was why he wanted to meet with you. “There’s nothing else I can do.” The finality of his words made you let out a cry, heaving in breaths only for them to be choked back out before you could make use of them, “I had no choice.”

“You _always_ have a choice…” You pulled away, completely, and eased yourself off of the bed, “...you made yours.” There was a moment where neither of you moved, and a big, selfish part of you wanted him to take the words back so that you could fall into his arms and love him like you thought he deserved to be loved, but as each second passed and the silence stretched on, your pain only increased. Before you could lose your resolve, you walked towards the door, and didn’t look back, but paused as you eased it open. “I hope… I hope you live a long life at the wall. I hope you find a place. For my sake as much as yours.”

As you gently closed the door behind you, you found your way to your room in the darkness, chest heaving in as much air as it could manage and still not finding enough.

A fortnight later, Robert died.


	2. If you ask me, I'll do anything you say, boy.

When you arrived at Castle Black, to say you were put off is an understatement. 

On the other side of the large, wooden gates were a few hundred _wildlings_ , a few members of the Night’s Watch, and a giant. 

Luckily for you, he was perched on the far side of the courtyard.

Your eyes scanned the area for any possible threats. It didn’t appear to be a hostage situation, if the women and children among the group were any indication (then again, they _were_ wildlings). You nodded at the men who opened the gate as you entered. “Jon Snow?” You inquired, stiffly.

“The Lord Commander’s up there.” He pointed to a building up a flight of stairs, partly sheltered from the light snowfall. You thanked him and began trudging toward it. As you navigated the thick crowd of people, you began to worry more and more about what, exactly, was happening right now. You’d heard murmurs of the wildlings being let in, but to see it in person was astounding. Weren’t the members of the Night’s Watch at war with them?

Not to mention that matter of Snow. First, you don’t hear from him for half a decade. Next, he’s offering asylum to the only real threat beyond the walls. It didn’t make _sense_ to you - weren’t they who he was here to fight? In his letter, he requested urgent assistance from you. You didn’t know what that meant - and despite your still-bruised feelings from when he left you, you dropped everything and came running. You were nearly ashamed. 

While wrapped up in your thoughts, you weren’t paying attention to the rowdy group of men from north of the wall calling at you as you passed. You were only pulled from your reverie when a heavy - unwelcome - hand landed on your shoulder. 

Without thinking very _much_ of it, you freed yourself from their grasp, and in one fluid motion pulled one of your blades from its scabbard, pointing it at your assailant’s throat. “Yes?” you asked.

It was a ginger man, with a full beard and wild, untamed hair. He had a slightly unhinged look in his blue eyes. You raised a brow at him. He raised one back. Then, you noticed the space that had formed around you two. The people around you watched for what would happen next. You wondered _why_ they were all _here_ for about the twentieth time in three minutes.

“Well aren’t you a wild one?” His voice was all rasp as a sly smile slid onto his face. You smirked in response. He held his hands up in surrender, “I wanted to ask if you were looking for Snow, is all.” 

“Would you know where he is better than those men at the gate?” You asked, gesturing towards them and re-sheathing your dagger. 

“I might…” He said, looking you up and down twice over, “do you _have_ to find him now?” He asked slyly. You ignored the implication, grimacing.

“Preferably, yes. Where is he?” As soon as your weapon was away, the crowd that had begun to surround you dispersed. “Do you know, or was that just an excuse to talk to me?”

“And while we’re at it,” Ignoring your question, he stepped closer to you, so that you had to look up at him. “Who are you, exactly? Jon never told me he had… _this_ waiting for him, outside of _Castle Black_.” He said the name with the slightest hint of mockery in his voice.

“Lady [First] of House Celtigar, blood of old Valyria. First of her name. Waiting for no one.” You answered, extending a hand for him to shake, “And you?”

He grasped your outstretched hand firmly, “Tormund. Of house Giantsbane,” He was clearly joking. “A real pleasure to meet ya.”

“Right. I need to go, then.” You said. You glance up toward the dark sky, as you make your way up the steps, anticipation making your fingertips tingle. What did he need? It must have been an emergency if he made peace with the wildlings. Your spies whispered of a war between the Night’s Watch and an organized army of wildlings just a little over a month ago. What changed so quickly? When you finally reached the top of the staircase, a young boy was there to meet you, malcontent making a permanent frown decorate his face. 

“The Lord Commander is busy right now. He can’t spare another moment on wildling troubles.” He looked at you with clear disdain. You furrowed your brow, looking down at your furs and leathers. Did you look like a wildling? Did he grow up at the wall, and not know the difference between a noblewoman and a wildling girl?

“I’m not a wildling.” You looked up and past him, “This door?” Without waiting for an answer, you opened it. 

Jon sat still with his head in his hands, papers and books strewn across the large, wooden desk he leant against, hardly interested in your intrusion. You were almost taken aback by how much older he looked - he had grown a beard and his hair was just a touch more wayward, and the frown he held on his features seemed to age him nearly ten years.

You faltered in the doorway for a moment, lost in what you should do. Before you knew it your feet brought you to him quickly and you blinked back tears. He looked up at you just a second before your arms were around him, and to your utter delight he melted into you as you held his head against your chest, burying his face into you.

For all of a blissful minute, you were together again.

Then, he pulled away. “It’s good to see you.” He held your hands in his gingerly, almost like he was afraid to break you. Considering who you had become now, it almost made you want to laugh. Almost. You squeezed his hands gently. “I wasn’t expecting you to come yourself. I was hardly expecting a response.” He seemed sheepish, at the least. 

A small laugh escaped you, “I wanted to ignore you. Had you contacted me a few years ago, I might have. But I know you _now_ more than I did then. You had your reasons,” You sighed heavily and looked around the office, “You found your place. It was the right thing to do.”

“I don’t know if I did.” He smiled again, a bittersweet thing to see. He stood up and placed his hands on your shoulders, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Sometimes it doesn’t feel that way.”

“It never does. That doesn’t go away.” You grinned at him. “I always knew you could be something.” You whispered. His hands came to rest on your cheeks, and you laid yours on top of his. “You were meant for this.”

“Thank you.” He looked down at the ground, voice low. “That means… a lot.”

You allowed a somber beat to pass as you tried to read his expression. He looked conflicted, as always. There was a definite guilt to him that made you squint.

“What?” When you spoke, your voice was icier than you’d meant for it to be. His eyes snapped back up to yours and he opened his mouth to speak, searching for the words. “ _Jon_.” You said, pointedly. 

“Are you married?” He asked. Despite the low-light in the room, you could tell that his cheeks began to redden. He let go of you and began to reorganize the papers on his desk, seemingly frustrated, “It’s not something that should concern me after - I don’t know why I asked.” He said, heaving a sigh. 

“It isn’t.” You agreed, bracing yourself against the edge of the desk. 

“I know.” He nodded, straightening a few books. You watched him, fighting off a self-satisfied smile.

“Especially since you didn’t bother to keep in contact with me. For years.” You added.

“Yes, I completely agree,” He said, meeting your eyes again. He looked, at least, genuinely repentant. “I shouldn’t have asked. I had no right...”

“It hurt.” He almost flinched, biting his lower lip and looking away from you again in shame. You nearly felt bad for him, but the cold side of you felt nothing but satisfaction. 

“I know.” His voice was small. He didn’t bother to pretend to be busy anymore, instead opting to stare, forlorn, out the window..

Then, you allowed another pause of silence before you said, “You sent me a letter, and that’s why I’m here. It seemed important.”

“Yes, I…” He stood up straight to face you again. “There’s a war coming.”

“Did you just figure that out?” You furrowed your brow, “Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms is aware of that, darling.” Jon paused for a moment, seemingly unsure how to respond. 

“Not that war. _The_ war. Have a seat.”

 

Almost an hour had passed. You sat on his desk, brows drawn inward in worry and fear. If what he was saying was true, if there truly was an army full of dead people north of the wall… He had an anxious look on his face. “I believe you.” You assured him. “And this is why you’ve let the wildlings in, huh?”

“Yes. They’re not our enemies. They just want-” He sighed in frustration, shaking his head. “We need everyone that we can get. Anyone not on our side is on theirs.” 

You considered his words for a moment, worrying the handle of one of your daggers. “Okay.” You stood up from the edge of the desk, and he rose to meet you. Extending a hand, you met his gaze confidently. “I pledge the warriors of House Celtigar to you: Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.” His relief was palpable as he shook your hand, nodding solemnly. “I also vow to seek out as many allies as possible. This war cannot be won with just us.”

“Thank you.” He released your hand and nearly collapsed back into his chair. You pondered the future for a long while, in a comfortable silence - at least, as comfortable as one could manage whilst considering impending doom. Jon broke your train of thought: “You’re so… different now. Older, yes but…” He searched for the words, but instead settled on gesturing abstractly. You shrugged, nonchalant. 

“Yes, well… I suppose responsibility has changed both of us.” In response, he offered a gentle shake of his head.

“Not just that,” He said softly, “Even the way… the way you move is just…” He regarded you with something akin to awe, “I missed you.” Then, as if he hadn’t meant to say that, “I mean, I miss everything about... then. It was all so simple.” 

“For us, maybe. Looking back, it was obviously hell for the people running things around us. They were giving their all to salvage an already irreparably broken realm.” You surmised, shrugging. “They all believed that they were right, and taught us to believe that they were right. It was bound to turn to shit for us.” You shifted a bit, and something at your waist caught his attention.

“Wha- Let me see that?” He seemed confused. You pulled out one of your daggers and twirled it in your hand, handing it to him by the hilt. He had wonder on his face. “You… know how to use this?” A little laugh escaped him, incredulity in his tone. You nodded.

“Those trips to Dorne when I was younger? I trained with the Viper and several men from Braavos. I’m fairly skilled now.” You were a little bashful, pulling out the second one and staring at your reflection in the steel. “I’ve been training more, though. Since you left. I threw myself into it.” You made a vague gesture with your hands, “That and maintaining the peace. It’s hard to rule over a determinedly disjointed people. You should know, huh?” You breathe a laugh at him, too. 

Your amusement died down eventually when you noticed his hard gaze on you, and you looked back at him in silence. 

“...wow.” Jon muttered. Your brows drew together in mild confusion. You had missed him, it was true. It was almost unreal that he sat in front of you, inches away, still so obviously into you. Even after you were no longer the lady he had known. He stood up, suddenly in between your legs, caging you in with his hands on either side of your hips.

“I’m not married.” You whispered, as his face neared yours. “Do you have anyone?” 

“No.” He said lowly. His face inched closer and his eyes scanned your face, searching for something. You wished that you knew what. You hoped it wasn’t what you thought. “No one. Never.”

A sudden mix of sadness and guilt overtook you. “...Do you promise?” You asked, pulling him closer by his belt. Your lips brushed against his, not quite touching as you asked, “Really?”

“Yes.” His brows drew together as he read your expression. He pulled away a bit and you followed, craving a proper reunion. “What’s wrong?”

You didn’t bother to answer, instead lightly pressing your lips to his. Jon grabbed your hips and pulled you to the edge of the desk, effectively eliminating all space between you two. 

You teased him a bit, pulling back from the kiss and taking his lower lip between your teeth. He placed a hand gently, but firmly, on the back of your head and pulled you back to him. You allowed him to take the lead, instead opting to run your hands along his armor, fingering the latches that held the pieces to him. While his tongue re-explored you, your hands roamed his body with reckless abandon. 

When you managed to get his breastplate off, he pulled away from your lips, placing kisses all over: Your jaw, your nose, your cheeks, chin, forehead - whatever he could reach. He whispered something, almost as though you weren't meant to hear it, between each kiss. It sounded like a prayer.

Never one to be patient, you captured him in another quick kiss, pulling away and making him follow. He let out a small sound of frustration when your mouths met again, and almost of their own volition, your hands were inching below his belt. He jolted at the contact and pulled away then, a look somewhat akin to a puppy on his face. 

For what felt like forever, he just looked at you, reading. Examining. You weren’t ready to reply with any of your usual wit or charm, instead stuck at nervousness.

Then, a quiet request finally escaped him. “Please.”

Biting your lip, you drew your brows together and looked out of the window to your left. The sun was beyond gone, the only things left being an empty courtyard and a guilty conscience. 

“I’m engaged.” You admitted, closing your eyes. For what felt like a full age, he didn’t react. When you got fed up with the suspense, you turned to face him again, almost afraid of what would come next.

His brows were drawn inward, and his eyes bored into yours with a thick sadness that made you recoil. Before you could manage any words to defend yourself, he asked, “Do you love him?”

  
  
  


Once you left his office, the young man from before led you to a room further down the hall. It was sequestered away in a little corner, like a line that led cattle to slaughter. One entry, one exit. When he opened the door for you, it was a large, single room. It looked like it had been previously occupied. 

You turned to the boy, raising a brow in his direction. He answered your unasked question, “It’s the Lord Commander’s quarters. He won’t be needing them tonight.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments greatly appreciated and always seen. 
> 
> Not beta read.


	3. Pyrrhic

You liked to think of sword fighting as a dance.

It was the only way your father could get you into it when you were younger. You were, by all means, a feminine girl. You liked singing and sewing and gossiping, and enjoyed the leisurely life of a highborn lady - it was a life of ease, pleasure, and love, nearly free of heartache. When you fought, it was every bit as poised as you were raised to be by your mother - a choreography of graceful spins, sumptuous parries, and comely strikes. 

The Red Viper had once called you, “ _ atropa belladonna _ ”. You didn’t know what it meant, and never thought to ask. Whatever the meaning, the way he would say it as he smiled and ruffled your hair made you take it as a compliment. Oberyn Martell was hard to impress - and perhaps he had only said it to flatter you in your more naive years. 

The man had a reputation for being a bit of a womanizer, something your mother had warned you about long before you were due to ship south, officially. In fact, she’d said, all Dornishmen were prone to sins of the flesh, and despite their charming words and witty natures, you were never to lay with one. Or, if you did, no one was to ever know about it. Luckily for her, you were never concerned with other men, as by the time you made the decision to leave, Jon already had your heart - and no matter how much he didn’t want it, you had his. 

In the past, a brave swordsman or two would venture north to teach you, personally - and it worked out well, as you quite enjoyed the basics of swordplay and archery. You were quite good at archery - your hands were steady and you were patient, to the delight of your archery instructors. When it came to swords, however, you had always been a bit less adept; swords were big and heavy and long and awkward.

It was Oberyn Martell who had suggested daggers - they were lighter and easier to swing and more easily concealed, and also mostly unheard of in the North. But as soon as you got your first pair, the second the leather-wrapped handle hit your fingers, you knew that they were meant for you. Within a year, you were adept in combat, besting many people that dared to challenge you. In three, there was nary a person who knew how to fight that you hadn’t faced in training, Oberyn’s own bastard daughters included, and much to their dismay.

You understood their distaste for you - you wore a foreigner, and although you were generally welcomed into their come, just like the Princess Myrcella, you would never be one of them. Oberyn himself had trained his girls, and although he would frequently give you advice and offer you pointers, you were taught by another foreigner - a Braavosian man, bought out of exile by your father. You were not their family.

Over the years, that fact had begun to sour your every interaction with the sand snakes. You were used to not belonging, seeing as you’d been tossed from noble house to noble house since you had your first blood - but that fact never made the sting of rejection any easier. It was worse, still, when the Princess Myrcella hardly spoke to you, either, even though she was a few years younger than you, and already betrothed. Thus, you spent your days with the Red Viper.

By the time your fourth and final year in Dorne had arrived, the only person you had yet to beat was Oberyn himself. He was the only one who showed you any true kindness in Dorne, and for that you thanked him. When you were called back to the North, you were sad to part, and he was sad to see you go, but duty hardly ever cares about sadness or friendship. He promised to write you and you promised to train, hard enough to beat him the next time you saw him. But that never happened. 

 

Because now Oberyn Martell was dead. 

 

And your mother and father were dead.

 

And Jon Snow was dead.

 

A piercing scream woke Castle Black that morning. Only later did it occur to you that it was yours. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not Beta Read.
> 
> Kudos and comments greatly appreciated and always seen.


	4. For no reason at all

You felt surprisingly level-headed.

Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was just that you were used to grief. Either way, there was no hysterics, no more screaming, no heart-wrenching pain. Only a vague sadness and silent tears streaming down your face.

“If I might advise,” Davos, the older man with kind eyes that had joined you that morning spoke up, “My lady, it would be wise of you to leave Castle Black and head back-”

“I will not leave his body here amongst these murderers.” You said coldly, “Thorne and his cohorts will pay. I’ll take their heads myself.” It was almost unbelievable. This couldn’t be real. 

Melissandre, a very red woman, placed a gentle hand on your shoulder and gave you a pitying but troubled look. The Priests and Priestesses of R’hllor were always a bit of an enigma to you - they only seemed to show up when the proverbial shit was about to hit the ceiling. Her hand was too warm for you to want to shrug her off, so you ignored it and placed a shaky hand to Jon’s cheek. He was ice cold. It made you  _ sick _ .

Ghost whined softly and nosed at one of his gloved hands. “He’ll have made it official by now. Castle Black is his.” Davos said. The air in the room seemed to get heavier. 

The whole situation made you wonder which of the Seven or the Old Gods the Starks had managed to piss off. Grimly, you thought that they were all dropping like flies. The only ones left, to your knowledge, were Sansa, and an unlikely Arya. You’d been trying to locate the latter for years now, though, and still nothing was certain. 

“I don’t care who sits at the high table - Jon was my friend. And they… they  _ butchered _ him. Now we return the favor.” Edd said. You wiped your tears despite the relentless torrent and straightened up. If there was to be a call to action, you would be a part of it. The Red Woman’s hand fell from you and she took a step back, circling the table to examine the man laying on it.

“We don’t have the numbers.” Davos replied. He sounded weary.

“We have a Direwolf.” Edd replied. You looked down at Ghost, and then found yourself staring again at Jon. They had stabbed him seven full times. You wondered if that number in particular meant anything. Was it the amount of traitors involved? Was it because he followed the Old Gods, and not the Seven? The Direwolf looked at you with strangely intelligent eyes.

“That’s not enough.” You muttered. “I need a crow - I can get word back home, have my men march. But it would take a fortnight  _ at least,  _ to get around Winterfell and into The Gift.” His eyes were still open. You were hesitant to close them, because they would then never be open again. You would never see the corners crinkle when he smiled, as rare a sight that was to begin with… never hear his voice again. What was the last thing he said to you? Why had you left his side? 

Edd looked at you with new eyes, full of suspicion. “There’s been no time for introductions. What is your name?” At that, you blinked out of your reverie and looked away from your love.

“[First] Celtigar.” You greeted plainly. 

“Hold on…” Ser Davos perked up, “We could use that. The Night’s Watch doesn’t want to risk a battle so soon after the one they’ve just suffered. We  _ need _ to fight, but we don’t need to die.”

You considered his words thoughtfully. “Jon has friends. From all over. Some must be closer than my men.” 

Ser Davos and Edd made long eye contact with each other, and you felt strange being out of the loop. After a pause, Edd looked around the room seriously. “Bolt the door. Don’t let anyone in. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

He gave one more survey of the men before him, with his eyes finally landing on Ghost. Then, he departed. Melissandre stirred from behind you.

“I shall take my leave before you do any such thing.” Then, she eyed you again, “I would suggest you do the same, but I suppose it is out of my hands.” She said. Her eyes found Jon’s face again, and they turned deeply troubled. Her faith seemed shaken.

When she left, there was an impossibly long stretch of silence before Davos looked at you again and said, “You say you’re from House Celtigar?” 

“Yes. You say you’re with… uh…” You thought deeply for a moment, “Baratheon?” The Great Houses often wound up confused in your head, despite the fact that you were one of them. 

“Yes. Stannis, rightful heir to the Iron Throne.” He said it as though it was rehearsed, but held steady eye contact with you as you appraised him. “House Celtigar has grown quite a bit in strength and numbers since King Robert’s death.”

You spoke carefully, stepping away from the table as your mind finally found something worthwhile to focus on elsewhere. “Murder. And yes,  _ we _ have. Mostly since Theon Greyjoy’s rebellion and the Boltons’ rise to power. People were afraid and we welcomed them with open arms. Kindness goes a long way.” 

“You got a nice bit of northern land out of that deal though, didn’t you?” His voice wasn’t quite accusatory, but the way it was framed sure made it feel that way. Your eyes narrowed slightly.

“Quite a bit. Quite a few soldiers, too.” You answered. Davos nodded silently.

“Aren’t the Lannisters a bit upset about that?” He quizzed. You shrugged, unconcerned.

“The Lannisters have more pressing concerns, at least for right now. The Hand and the King, gone in such quick succession? They’ll be distracted for a while, at least until Cersei figures out which way is up.” You crossed your arms and kicked at nothing on the ground. Then, you said, “If Stannis had come to me, perhaps I could have helped him. How many men did he have after Blackwater? Three thousand? Less?”

Davos doesn’t get offended. Instead, he regards you with a half-smile, impressed, though he shouldn’t be. “You’ve been keeping your ears open, then.”

“Everyone is keeping their ears open. Be surprised when one keeps their mouths shut, instead.” You smiled. Davos raised his eyebrows and thought for a second before responding.

“His army was... much smaller than when he started, but his men were loyal, and I’m certain they fought to the last.” When you appeared unimpressed, he added, “ _ Would _ you have helped him, if he’d asked?”

“It depends.” You said, almost flippantly. 

“On?” Davos prompted, when you didn’t elaborate further.

“On whether I looked into his eyes and saw a man worth fighting for.” You replied, allowing a brief pause before adding, “I don’t think Stannis would’ve gone to anyone else for help, anyway. I don’t even think he really planned to survive Winterfell. That’s why he left his Hand.” Your eyes drifted up from the floorboards to make eye contact with Ser Davos. “The Boltons outnumber his army by at least six to one.”

“The odds…” Davos looked pained. You wondered if he truly cared for Stannis that much. Perhaps they were friends. “...the odds weren’t in his favor, I’ll admit, but battles are won with intelligence, not numbers.”

“And the Boltons have both.” You finished. Not wanting to pain the man anymore than that, you said, “But I suppose you’re right.”

Another long stretch of silence fell over the room. Minutes passed like hours, and the only way you could tell that time still passed was by the sun moving across the sky, from the little window on the far side of the room, too high up to see what went on outside. You didn’t like that, because it made you feel vulnerable. Blind.

“I don’t blame you for it. The Bolton boy is out of control. The things I’ve heard about Winterfell… I only wish you, at least, could take it back from him.” Davos finally spoke up again, drawing your attention from your thoughts.

You wiped your hands on your pants, “I will. It just takes a bit of time to plan a proper siege, especially on a castle like Winterfell. I came here as soon as Jon called for me, though.”

“Alone?” A voice came from the group of men behind you. You turned to see who it was - a tall, skinny young man. He looked wispy, and you supposed that he was perhaps a thief before he came to Castle Black. When your eyes met his, he looked down awkwardly. “Apologies, milady. It’s just…” 

“No need to apologize. It was a… rash decision. I should have prepared a small cavalry, but I didn’t want to leave my castle any more defenseless than necessary. I was ill-prepared.” A sting ran through you at the thought that maybe, just maybe, had you prepared a bit more, Jon wouldn’t have died. You pushed that thought to the back of your mind.

“Rash indeed. But for what it’s worth, I’m sure Jon was pleased to see you.” Davos said. You made long eye contact with him as you considered his words, before finally nodding.

“I’m-” There was a sudden pounding at the door, and Ghost growled. 

“Ser Davos,” The voice sounded. If it was who you thought it was... you drew your daggers and held them at the ready, the fine Valyrian steel freshly forged and un-blooded.  You were ready to change that. “We have no cause to fight. We are both anointed knights.” 

“It seems we have nothing to fear, my brothers.” Davos muttered. He stood and neared the door, even as everyone around him held their swords at the ready, backing away from it. You stood next to Ghost, almost protectively in front of where Jon was laid, resting.

“I am willing to grant amnesty to every man who drops his weapon now. And you, Ser Davos, will be permitted to travel south - a free man, with a fresh horse.” Even the sound of his voice brought up a vitriolic hate so potent that your hands began to shake, and your balance wavered. You had never felt such  _ unrefined _ anger.

“And some mutton.” Ser Davos said. “I’d like some mutton. I’m not much of a hunter, so I’ll need some food, too, if I’m to make it south.”

There was a short pause before the voice sounded again. “We will supply you. You can even take the Red Woman, if you’d like - or leave her here with us. But this ends by nightfall. Surrender, so we can all avoid bloodshed.”

“Thank you, Ser Alliser. But you seem to be forgetting that we have a Lady in the room with us. What of her?”

There was a long, drawn out silence. “We don’t wish to be the cause of any more loss in the Seven Kigndoms, but the Night’s Watch does hold the authority to try and execute  _ anyone  _ accused of treason. Come out before nightfall.”

Davos’ brows furrow as he glances at you. “We will discuss it amongst ourselves, and come back to you with an answer.” Davos said, amiably. You almost wanted to hit him for it.

Once Thorne’s footsteps reatreated, Davos turned to your small group of loyalists with a disheartened look. He rubbed his forehead with his hand, gingerly, as if he was nursing a headache. “Folks, I’ve been running from men like that all my life and it’s in my learned opinion that-”

“If we open that door, they’ll slaughter us all?” You finished. The lot of you relaxed at least a little, re-sheathing your weapons. 

“They want to come in - they’re gonna come in.” Some man chimed in. “Edd is our best hope - our  _ only _ hope.” He sounded slightly panicked.

“We’re in a sad fucking state of Dolorous Edd is our only chance.” Another said. You didn’t know the man well enough to make a judgement of that magnitude, but it brought a slight smile to your lips nevertheless.

Davos put his hands on his hips, thinking. He raised a hand, “There’s always the Red Woman.” He said. A scoff sounded through the room.

“What’s one redhead gonna do against forty armed men?” 

“You haven’t seen her do what I’ve seen her do. She is capable of… anything.”

“Well what do you have in mind?” Intrigued, you prompted him. 

Davos sat down in his chair again, hand on his chin and a fire in his eyes. “D’you believe in magic?” He asked.

 

When night fell, another knock sounded on the door. 

“It’s time ser Davos - open the door so the men inside can rejoin their brothers, and this can end in peace.” A pause, “We’ll even set the wolf free north of the wall, where it belongs. Nobody needs to die tonight.” Thorne’s voice sounds absolutely sinister. Around the room, everyone makes grim eye contact with one another, and everyone remains silent, save for a menacing growl from Ghost.

“I’ve never been much of a fighter.” Ser Davos says, mostly to himself. Then, he walks over to the edge of the table and grabs Longclaw, Jon’s sword. “Apologies for what you’re about to see.” He draws his sword, and everyone follows his lead. You pull your daggers from their sheaths again and stand at the ready, shooting another look at Jon’s body. You get angry again.

“Come on.” You mutter lowly. The sound of an axe striking wood sounds repeatedly, and Ghost growls again, crouching low to the ground. The bangs begin to make cracks in the wooden door, and as you feel your palms begin to sweat, you wonder how many of these men your could take out before one wound up killing you. Three? Five? How soon would the novelty of your fighting style wear off? How soon would they be able to read your movements?

The cracks begin to get deeper, and eventually, you see wood chips flying out of the door. Then, with one final strike, there’s a hole big enough to make eye contact with one of the men forming it. For a brief moment, he peers in the room and seems almost conflicted, but then, in another, his face is gone.

You hear some shouting. The men in the room around you shift nervously, and you listen intently. There’s a commotion outside, and then what sounds like a roar.

One of the men next to you breaths a laugh, all relief. “Fuckin’ Edd.”

You’re the first to move. You lift the wooden bar over the door with relative ease despite the damage done to it, and get outside fast enough to see a body slide across the ground, and the Night’s Watch members looking confused and conflicted and horrified.

“Fight, you cowards!” Thorne, you could tell, shouted. Ghost came to stand next to you. You wondered if he knew who had killed Jon. 

Edd, and the redheaded man from earlier - Tormund? Stood in the center of the courtyard, swords drawn and pointed at Jon’s murderer. “You fucking traitors.” He spat. You gripped your weapons tighter and began to head down the stairs when a heavy hand on your shoulder gave you pause. Ser Davos shook his head.

“Now is not the time, milady. He will answer for his crimes, I can assure you of that much.”

“The only Traitors here are the ones that drove their knives into the Lord Commander’s heart.” Edd said darkly. Everyone stood still. You shrugged off Davos’ hand and walked down the stairs, calmly, as Thorne spoke up again.

“For thousands of years, the Night’s Watch has held Castle Black against the wildings.” All of this, because of the wildlings? He’d killed Jon over the  _ wildlings _ ? A bitter taste filled your mouth, but your stride didn’t change, even as you neared Throne. 

“Until you.” Tormund said, flashing a smile that showed his teeth. You decided then that you quite liked Tormund. 

Suddenly, a should to your left alerted you to an oncoming attack. When you looked, you saw that it was a young man - in fact, the same one that had led you to Jon’s room the night before. A thousand feelings went through you - he was involved, you knew it, but why? He was just a boy, and yet it didn’t stop the hate that filled your heart when you looked at him. 

Easily, you dodged his sloppy attack, even though it removed the element of surprise you were going for. As if you needed the help, an arm pulled you further away from the boy as he stumbled into his comrades. Thorne made a move to raise his weapon next, and before he could manage to do any damage, you maneuvered closer to him and held one of your weapons at his throat. He paused, giving you a look almost as apoplectic as the one you gave him. Almost. You pressed the knife into his flesh, just enough to sting. 

“Throw them into the cells.” Edd said, his voice possessing some amount of authority. “Where they belong.”

It was difficult for you allow him to be hauled away, but somehow, you managed it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not Beta Read
> 
> Kudos and comments greatly appreciated and always seen.


End file.
